Where There is Evil (31 page)

Alistair rang me early one morning to check if I’d heard anything from London. I read to him the reply I’d finally received, which had come from the Scottish Office
in Edinburgh. It was from a civil servant named Elva Langwill, and apologized for the two-month delay. The PM had passed my letter to the Secretary of State for Scotland. She was replying for
him:

Although the Lord Advocate is a Government Minister, when he, or Crown Counsel on his behalf, take decisions in individual cases, they do so as independent prosecutors
acting in the public interest. While the Lord Advocate is ultimately responsible to Parliament for his actions, he cannot allow himself to be influenced in individual cases by factors which do not
arise from the merits of the cases themselves. It is therefore not open to the Secretary of State, or indeed the Prime Minister, to seek to influence the Lord Advocate in the decisions he makes as
prosecutor, or to call him to explain the reasons which lie behind a decision taken in a particular case.

The independence of the Lord Advocate in matters of prosecution is a fundamental feature of the system of criminal justice in Scotland.

The writer closed by saying that she was passing on my letter to Lord Rodger himself, and she appreciated this might not be the hoped-for response, but trusted it clarified
things.

‘For heaven’s sake!’ Alistair cried, in exasperation. ‘You should not be getting replies from the Scottish Office, Sandra, when they’ve absolutely nothing to do
with it. And it’s ludicrous that they’re passing on your correspondence to the Crown Office when that’s the very body you’re complaining about! It’s totally
outrageous. Time for you to write to the two others I suggested: John McFall in the House of Commons, and Donald Macauley who sits in the Lords. They’re both the relevant spokespersons. Get
off a résumé of the events to them, and I’ll back it up with a supporting letter. Let’s arrange an appointment.’

We met up in mid-March 1994, just after I had seen Jim, to whom I revealed that I had now made contact with Janet Hart in Australia. He was noncommittal on this and, to my disappointment,
confirmed that the pond search had not revealed any remains or artifacts which could be linked to her sister. He could see I was as determined as ever, and rolled his eyes with amazement when I
told him I was putting together the transcript of the William O’Connor tape so that I could send Janet details of the meeting that had led to police interest in the Witchwood area. I hoped it
might bring Janet some comfort.

It was to be my last meeting with Jim, who hinted that he was busy tidying some loose ends in his post. It seemed that moves were afoot, and I was delighted for him when I heard in April that he
had won promotion to Detective Chief Inspector. I bought a card to congratulate him and sent him my best wishes on his success, with a sense of relief that his involvement with me had not hurt his
career.

I showed Alistair the documents I had prepared for the two politicians. He gave me a copy of one of the covering letters he had written to accompany my request for meetings with them both: I
wanted them to press my case in Westminster. I read it when I got home, and his words made me feel much better after the rebuffs I had received.

Without going into all the details, having met her father again, Sandra became convinced he was responsible for the likely abduction and murder of a child called Moira
Anderson in Coatbridge. This may all sound a trifle improbable, but I can say that, having heard the details, I am pretty sure that she is right and that the original police enquiry was a terrible
botch . . .

As you have probably guessed, this document is very much a potted version of the whole saga, but what I can assure you of is that Sandra is not a crank. For what it is worth, I am firmly of
the view that her suspicions are well-founded and that a major injustice will be done if this man is not brought to book for his wrongs. I hope you can help her, and would be quite happy to talk
with you about it all in greater detail.

Alistair J. M. Duff.

John McFall chose not to become involved, but Lord Macauley wrote to say that he would make some discreet inquiries first, before we met with Alistair at Parliament House. His
initial reaction was of great disquiet. He requested copies of all the correspondence up to date, and a complete summary of events.

‘What’s the problem?’ Sheena, the chief clerical officer, who was also working late one night, had spotted my haunted look over the paperwork I’d to do. I felt I could
confide in her, given her connections to Coatbridge from childhood, and the discreet comments she had made as events in the media had unfolded. ‘How can I help?’ I was stunned when she
took away the letters which all had to be copied, and a covering letter I’d drafted to type. Later, I discovered that Moira Anderson’s was one of two child abductions in Coatbridge this
century. The other, in the 1920s, turned out to have been of the brother of Sheena’s grandfather. The murder of a child does not affect only one generation.

More unexpected help came in other forms. Alistair and I left Lord Macauley after a supportive meeting, with a book on the infamous ‘Carol X’ Glasgow rape case, in which Donald
Macauley had been involved as a young man. He lent it to me to let me see what was involved in pursuing a private prosecution, and he waved away my thanks while indicating to us that as Shadow Lord
Advocate he would continue to press the Crown Office on my behalf in an attempt to glean further information. So far, between them, he and Alistair had ascertained that no written notification had
ever been sent by the Lord Advocate’s office to Leeds to let my father or his English solicitors know of their decision in relation to possible future proceedings. They had been able to check
that the Procurator Fiscal at Airdrie had never intimated to Mr Gartshore any word about their decisions. As far as my two advisers were concerned, this seemed to indicate that if and when we could
pressure the Crown Office to re-examine its findings, the door was not firmly closed on a possible case against my dad.

Financially, however, I told Alistair, my cousins and I had ruled out the idea of a private prosecution. It was too much of a risk, with too many folk and their families worried about
maintaining a roof over their heads. Despite Lord Macauley’s view that my cousins could be eligible for criminal compensation, we had dismissed it. None of us, I told him, were interested in
gaining financially from a tragic situation. We just wanted justice, for Moira and ourselves.

‘I suppose the only way forward is if you happen to know a millionaire, Sandra.’

Alistair’s remark had been a joke, but after he dropped me off at home, I pondered over what he had said, and realized I
did
know of one multi-millionaire in the Monklands, who
might help us.

Through Eileen, I arranged a meeting in the Georgian Hotel in Coatbridge with a local philanthropist, Vera Weisfeld, who had made a fortune with her second husband, Gerald, in
the rag trade. I introduced myself to her and her son Michael, of Celtic football club. Close up, the girl from Coatbridge who had worked so hard to gain unbelievable wealth and status, and who was
easily included in the top ten of Scotland’s rich and famous, was unassuming and genuine. She chatted away to break the ice, but a sharp business brain was at work. Her smile was warm, her
interest in my story genuine, as she asked her son to fetch us both a sherry. ‘Of course I recall the whole saga of Moira Anderson’s disappearance vividly.’ She proceeded to do
what every contemporary who remembered the event did – she recalled her exact movements on Saturday 23 February 1957. Then she and her son listened to my story.

‘Michael, how can we help?’ Vera was decisive. She wanted to consult with lawyers, see how feasible financing a private prosecution would be and get back to me. Meanwhile, I had to
give her a copy of the correspondence that had passed between all the parties concerned, and she would think it through. Her decision would not be made overnight, she said, but she’d be in
touch. We left the hotel to the sound of electioneering, and discussed the forthcoming by-election caused by John Smith’s death. We both felt sure Helen Liddell would succeed him, and I
mentioned that Janet in Australia had gone out with Alastair Liddell years before. His family had been friendly with Moira’s, and still lived in Cliftonville.

‘Scotland is really a very small country.’ Vera Weisfeld smiled.

Meanwhile, I received a call out of the blue from Elizabeth Taylor Nimmo, up north visiting her daughter. I was surprised to hear from her: she sounded upset. It transpired that her family had
had a new baby, and her daughter had asked her to bring all the old family albums to have a look through before they inserted the new ones.

‘I couldn’t believe it, Sandra. I hadn’t seen them for years. Pictures that my parents took at St Andrews when I was a kiddie – it was such a shock when I saw myself on
the beach in this pink sloppy joe T-shirt and the grey divided skirts. It was just as you described, and I’d forgotten that in the summer of 1956, my mum had got my hair permed. It does look
different, and darker in those snaps. My daughter said something when I was just gazing at it, and it must have triggered something. It was horrible.’

‘You’ve remembered,’ I said softly. ‘It
was
you. You’re Beth.’

She sobbed for a few moments, then I heard her agree quietly.

‘I’ve told my daughter, though it was so painful. The photo brought it all back, because we’re there, all of us on the beach, the family, my big sister and her boyfriend,
who’d been allowed to come with us. They were the ones who got married the same week as Moira disappeared the next February, and their anniversary always coincides. Well, when he was
changing, the towel slipped and, of course, there was a lot of hilarity, mainly at my expense because they thought I’d never seen a man undressed at my age. My parents were very fair people,
but strict, and they would’ve died rather than discuss sex with my sister and me. They thought I was pure as the driven snow. I was mortified. But I couldn’t tell my folks that I
had
actually seen a man’s sexual organ that summer.’

I felt a sweeping sense of relief. Here was the final piece in my own personal jigsaw of memory slipping into its appointed place, from the heat wave of 1956.

‘I’ve been so upset discussing it with my own daughter, but she insisted I phone you to let you know you were right about the flashback you had all these years ago. It was Moira and
your dad and me that you saw, though why I should’ve repressed it all this time, I don’t know. I genuinely had no recollection of the man Moira knew who called us over to his car that
day at Dunbeth Park, till I saw that picture of me on the sands at St Andrews and realized it was the same outfit you’d described. Suddenly, there I was, back with her, and laughing like a
couple of drains at what he was doing in his little black car.’

‘What was he doing, Elizabeth?’ I asked, already knowing.

‘He was exposing himself, wanting us to come and touch him and get sweets.’

‘You’re sure she knew him?’

‘Yes, I’m sure she called him by name. She definitely knew him, but when he spoke to her, that’s when you appeared, and we ran off in fits.’

I told Elizabeth how grateful I was that she’d shared this recollection with me.

She contacted me later to tell me she had called at the police station, where she had hoped to see Gus Patterson, whom she knew, but it had turned out there was only desultory interest in the
additional statement she gave. It seemed to her, she said, that the case, as Janet, my cousins and myself had feared, was being quietly put to rest once more in the recesses of Coatbridge police
station.

Now, I told my cousins, our only hope seemed to lie with Vera Weisfeld.

But it was clear when I met her again that she has decided reluctantly that a private prosecution was not the way forward. On advice from her lawyers, she felt she did not want to take on the
Lord Advocate. Then she said, ‘Have you considered writing down what has happened to you at all?’ She asked if I’d heard of Eddie Bell, a local guy of my own age, who, like
herself, had surpassed the aspirations of many. He had risen to great heights at Collins, the publishers in Glasgow. I remembered him as a bouncer on the door of the youth fellowship at
Gibson’s church from my teenage years, when they ran discos, a fair-haired square-set chap, who had sold greeting cards for a living.

‘Sure, I know who he is.’ I smiled at her. ‘Local boy done good, as they say! Now a real star in the publishing world, I understand.’

‘More than a star. He’s executive chairman these days of HarperCollins, and his reputation’s formidable, but like myself, he’s never forgotten his roots, and I imagine
the events of 1957 would be included in his memories of this town.’

Vera described how she was working on a book for him, and said she would be happy to arrange a meeting on my behalf. On the way home, however, I reflected on what she had suggested and I
realized that, for all sorts of reasons, I should consider her idea. I left it for some weeks, to mull things over, then contacted her again. ‘Right. I think I could do it. Tell Eddie
I’ll see him when he’s next north of the border.’

And so, through the millionairess, I met Eddie Bell, whose face seemed the same but whose shape had expanded since our teenage years. After a long lunch at Glasgow’s Devonshire Gardens,
when he’d heard of the ordeal we had all been through, he said simply, ‘This story has to be told. No question.’

I informed Alistair and Lord Macauley that the last resort, it seemed, would be a book. They were in broad agreement that it was perhaps the only real avenue remaining to me, though the latter
continued to fire off letters to the Crown Office. In November, he also accompanied me to meet Helen Liddell, now settling in as MP in John Smith’s constituency. As I had expected, she showed
great sensitivity and promised to do all she could, and met A and B to assure them of her support.